


guaranteed to blow your mind (anytime)

by hapax (hapaxnym)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Can Be Read As Ace Or Platonic, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, LITERALLY, M/M, This Is Just 2000 Words Of Ridiculousness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27390154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax
Summary: "All right, then,” Aziraphale pursed his lips judiciously.  “This one time.”“You just sit in that corner booth, angel.  I’ll get our order.”  Crowley sauntered up to the counter and leaned on one elbow.  “Espresso, double shot.  Cinnamon scone, warmed.  And the special drink.  You know the one.”Crowley has a cunning plan to tell the angel how he feels.  Without, y'know, actuallytellinghim.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 73





	guaranteed to blow your mind (anytime)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a ridiculous bit of silliness I put together to try and distract myself from a stressful week. I hope it does the same for you.
> 
> Be good to yourself.

“No. Absolutely out of the question.” Aziraphale’s tone was emphatic.

“C’mon, angel, pleeeeasse….” Crowley was definitely _not_ begging, not at all, that would be behaviour totally unbecoming a demon. He was … _wiling_ , that was it. This was all part of an elaborate scheme of temptation. “Just this once, I worked ssso hard on this project.” He usually hated it when his lisp slipped out, he was quite proud of his ability to suppress his more serpentine attributes; but he was also well aware that his angel found an occasional lapse into sibilance unaccountably “cute” ( _eww_ ) and he wasn’t above employing a cheap trick to get his way.

“You know how I feel about those … _corporate_ beverage establishments,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“All right, all right, I won’t lie, chain coffeeshops were one of mine,” the demon admitted, not without a certain pride. “But … “ he searched for a mitigating cover that the angel might accept, “ … they provide good training for baristas? And offer, uh, scholarships?” 

The compressed line of Aziraphale’s mouth suggested that he wasn’t buying it.

Crowley could see all his careful planning to surprise and delight the angel into happy moans (and, if he was very lucky, an ecstatic wiggle or two) collapse like insufficiently whipped cream. He was counting on this, bless it; it’s not like he was ever going to use _words_ to express what he felt, but he was sure that this particular scheme would convey what he didn’t have the ability to say. He pulled out a Never-Fail Emergency Fallback Tactic: “Come and try this, angel, and I will take you out to that cannoli place you love so much.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oooooh. The one in Boston?”

Crowley had actually been thinking of the one in South Kensington, but … “Sure. My treat.”

“All right, then,” Aziraphale pursed his lips judiciously. “This one time.”

Triumphant, Crowley led the way past the forest green mermaid picture. “You just sit in that corner booth, angel. I’ll get our order.” He sauntered up to the counter and leaned on one elbow. “Espresso, double shot. Cinnamon scone, warmed.” He grimaced slightly. Aziraphale wasn’t going to approve of thawed baked goods, chucked in the microwave, but the place didn’t offer anything better. He only hoped the next item would make up for it. “And the _special_ drink. You know the one.”

The barista, whose bright pink hair clashed horribly with her freckles (and who was almost certainly not paid enough for this gig), blanched a bit. “Not the …?” she pleaded.

The demon tilted one corner of his mouth. “Yep.”

Sighing, the girl pulled out a clipboard from beneath the counter. She perused the lengthy list of instructions. “Okay. Give me a couple minutes.”

“Take your time.” Crowley considered drumming his fingers on the counter, just to enhance the overall aggravation factor, but decided against it. He didn’t want to risk her messing up the recipe he had worked on so assiduously. He watched her construct it, step by step.

Cool coffee base in the blender, right. Tip in an assortment of sweet warm spices1: cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, cardamon. Two shots of vanilla syrup. Ice, then whirl. Pour into tall glass.

Next layer: vanilla ice cream, blended with reduced English Breakfast. 

Third layer: more coffee, caramel syrup, ice. Then carefully whisk in the special golden glitter sugar that Crowley had surreptitiously miracled a few days earlier, to allow time for the faint whiff of Below to dissipate. 

Final layer: a poofy cloud of pure white whipped cream, laced delicately with ground mahlab.

Then more golden glitter, and a carefully inserted pair of thin crunchy shortbread angel wings, dipped in white chocolate.

The barista whuffed a relieved sigh. The demon grinned. The espresso machine _whooshed_ , the microwave _dinged_ , and the rest of his order was arranged on a plastic tray. Crowley paid, and crumpled up fifty pounds to stuff into the tip jar.

By the time he returned to the booth, Aziraphale was visibly impatient. “What on earth is _that_?” he queried, staring at the overflowing glass.

He was not alone. A trio of twentysomethings in a nearby booth were visibly gaping. Another young woman pulled out her mobile to snap a photo. An androgynous customer peered over their laptop screen and began typing furiously. 

“ _That_ ,” Crowley answered with hellishly appropriate pride, “is called a PrincipaLatta.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “Is it,” he said flatly.

“Yep,” the demon drawled with satisfaction. “Behold the single most annoying coffeeshop drink in existence. It contains four days’ worth of calorie intake, mostly in the form of corn syrup. Customers are going to demand it, but pronounce it completely wrong. Baristas are going to hate every step of making it, and take it out on those who order it. Hipsters are going to sneer ostentatiously at it, and make everyone who likes it feel ashamed and resentfully. Editorials are going to be written about it, as a sign of the coming Apocalypse, _if_ ,” he corrected himself conscientiously, “there was still going to be one.”

Aziraphale eyed the concoction suspiciously.

“Oh, go ahead, angel, you’ll love it.” Crowley hoped so, anyhow. He had put into it everything that reminded him of his angel. It was bright, golden, and shining, like sunshine punctuated with clouds. Sweet, soft, warm; decadent, extravagant, with just enough bitterness and spice to keep from being cloying. _And_ a little miraculous surprise. He was counting on Aziraphale to detect in this offering all the extremely un-demonic emotions that clogged unexpressed at the back of his throat.

“Very well, dear. But don’t forget the cannoli.” The angel pulled the glass a little closer. “How … how does one consume such a thing? Drink it? Eat it with a spoon? Use …” he shuddered, “a straw?”

“However you like.” Crowley relented, and snapped a spoon into existence. “There you go.”

Aziraphale gingerly pulled out the wing-shaped biscuits, and nibbled on one edge. The wrinkles in his forehead smoothed out. “Oh. That’s rather nice, actually.”

_Yes!_ Crowley leaned forward a little.

The angel spooned up a small portion of whipped cream. His eyebrows shot back up. “Mahlab? That’s quite unusual. But delightful. And the sugar adds a pleasant crunch.” He noticed Crowley’s intent stare. “Would you like …?”

Every molecule in Crowley’s corporation yearned for a taste, but not at the expense of his carefully curated image. He shook his head. “Nah, you know me. I like my coffee to match my soul.”

Aziraphale glanced at the demon’s untouched espresso. “Superficial and overpriced?”

“Nah. Black, bitter, and _hot_. You wouldn’t understand.” He sternly admonished the snake-y side of his nature, which was writhing with _want_ at the sweet milky scent.2 “’Sides, I got it for _you_.”

The angel’s spoon broke through the cloud of whipped cream into the first coffee layer. He raised the glass to take a cautious sip, and hummed. When he placed the glass back on the table, there was a small poof of cream on the corner of his upper lip. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Wordlessly, Crowley scratched at his own mouth.

“Ah.” Aziraphale licked the cream away with a unhurried pink tongue, then daubed at his face with his napkin. 

The demon scrabbled for his mug and heroically drowned a string of random consonants beneath a flood of scalding espresso. “Why don’t you try giving it a stir?” he suggested, once he could form coherent words again.

Aziraphale shrugged, and picked up his spoon.

The demon leaned forward again, watching avidly.

The spoon _clinked_ against the glass. The sugary miracle activated, and golden sunshine suddenly transformed into the clear cerulean blue of a springtime sky.

There was an audible _gasp_ from the trio of uni students. One of them actually applauded. There was a muttered exclamation from the customer posting pictures, and a series of soft clicks.

“Goodness,” the angel said. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley said, trying very hard not to growl. “Do you like it?”

“A little … showy? I rather preferred the gold,” Aziraphale pouted. Observing his companion’s tight expression, he hastily added, “Still, it was an extremely pretty effect.”

And it went on like that. Aziraphale slowly worked his way through the layers, making appreciative comments (“ah, black tea ice cream, very nice, quite different from the usual green or white”) and gentle criticism (“hmm, I’m not sure that this caramel is _quite_ robust enough, not sufficient to want any extra sweetness”), and in general saying everything _right_ , but never quite expressing the joy and delight and _understanding_ that Crowley had desired. It was as if the angel was somehow not picking up on the blatantly obvious message that was surely in every sip.

Crowley had a sudden memory of a very young Warlock presenting his Nanny with a paper covered with looping red and black and yellow scribbles. He (well, _she_ then) had clapped and cooed, and told the boy, “What a magnificent flower!” Warlock had scowled, so Nanny had tried again. “Er, how silly of me. I mean, such a terrifying monster!” Warlock shook his head. Nanny turned the paper in every direction, and finally said, “Why don’t you tell me all about it then, Hellspawn?” Warlock said, “S a picture of YOU” and cried.

Well, Crowley had painted the angel in colours and flavours and textures, and apparently Aziraphale had completely failed to note the resemblance. Even more frustrating, he kept urging _Crowley_ to taste the thing. As if Crowley had the slightest taste for anything so sweet and indulgent. As if Aziraphale thought that this drink had anything at all to do with _him_.

Finally, Aziraphale’s spoon scraped against the bottom of the glass. He sighed, and patted his lips with his napkin again. “Well.”

“Well?”

“That was … well. Parts were quite scrummy, I must admit.”

Crowley gave a bitter laugh. “Like the curate’s egg, you mean?”

“No, no, not at all!” Aziraphale looked genuinely distressed. “It was just … well, it was all very _complicated_ , wasn’t it? Perhaps too much, all at once, when a … a coffee is perfectly capable of being more … elegant.” His expression, as he gazed at the demon, was very earnest. “Straightforward, even.”

“Well, _yeah_.” Crowley spread his hands and shrugged. “But that’s the point, innit? That’s where you get … like … the, you know …”

“The demonic effect?” Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “I can certainly see that. Layers upon layers, some of them self-evidently contradictory. And that, er, _chaotic_ aspect is not without a certain … appeal.”

No, no, no. That was supposed to be about all the complicated and nuanced flavours that made up the _angel._ This was all going _wrong_. This was a _failure_.

He had _fucked up_.

“Crowley?”

What had he been thinking? That he could somehow show his feelings about one exquisitely sophisticated, transcendently pure ethereal entity through the crass medium of stale syrups and canned whipped cream?

“Dearest?”

It wasn’t his fault. He had _tried_. He couldn’t be blamed that he hadn’t anything better to work with. It was all on this blessed coffeeshop. They should have fresher ingredients. Better trained employees. 

He aimed a venomous glare toward the back of the shop and snapped his fingers under the table. _Hah!_ Their coffee beans would now taste stale and burnt for as long as the company existed.3

“Oh, you ridiculous demon, just _look._ ” One warm finger tapped him on the chin, then turned his face back towards the counter. “You pulled it off. Your … _Principalotti—_ ”

“PrincipaLatta.”

Aziraphale winced. “Yes, well, it seems to be a roaring success.” He patted the demon’s hand and gave him a soft smile. “Another win for the forces of Evil. Well _done_ , dear boy.”

Crowley stared stupidly at his hand, still tingling from the pressure of angelic fingers. Then he lifted his gaze to the line of customers at the counter. Several were pointing at their booth. Others were waving their mobiles. The barista was calling into the back for help. The customer who had been working on their laptop was aiming its camera at the line. 

And the angel was _praising Crowley_ for all of it.

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He preened, just a bit. All right, the whole “demonic plan” was a smokescreen, designed to cover up his real intent. But it seemed like—even when he didn’t _mean_ to be—he was still one Hell of an agent of, well, Hell.

He rolled his shoulders and sprawled just a bit wider in his seat. “Yeah. ‘Course. Knew it would.”

“I’m sure.” Aziraphile’s smile grew a little brighter. “And I do thank you for letting me witness you work. I must professionally disapprove of your ends, of course, but it is impossible not to admire true craftsmanship when one encounters it.”

The angel _admired_ him. 

Crowley grinned. Yep. He was a _genius_. He’d figure out this whole thing about showing Aziraphale how he felt. Any day know. He was sure of it. “Wha’d’ya say we blow this joint and go someplace decent for lunch?”

“What a delightful thought. That mahlab has me positively pining for this lovely little Lebanese café, they make the most divine butter custard cake… Oh, and it’s quite close to that ice cream place, you know the one, they make these precious little stecchia …”

The demon allowed Aziraphale to precede him out the door, still happily nattering about ice cream on sticks. 

Ice cream. _Hmm_. There was a thought. Surely he could find someplace with access to _proper_ ingredients and techniques, and bully them into creating a treat worthy of the angel. One that even Aziraphale couldn’t misunderstand. Something simple and elegant and straightforward and _perfect_.

Mascarpone-based, perhaps. Sweet and creamy and tangy; complex without being overly complicated. Perhaps with chopped pears? Aziraphale liked pears. Oh, and he liked apricots, too, that would be good. But some kind of feather-like flake, to make sure that Aziraphale knew it was meant for him. Perhaps a dark chocolate? Or would that be too daring, too much like Crowley’s own colors? Stick a pin in that one, then. Not on a stick, though. Too casual, too messy. A cup, or perhaps a crispy golden cone … there was a thought, an actual _literal_ golden cone …

He could call it an _AnGelato_. And this time, it would _definitely_ work.

Notes:

1\. NOT “pumpkin spice”, thank you very much. Slightly different ingredients, completely different proportions, and entirely different aesthetic.  Back

2\. The first time Crowley had witnessed Shadwell stir five sugars and a splash of tea into a tin of condensed milk, his inner Serpent had reared and hissed in instinctive recognition of a potential rival. However, it turned out that Shadwell just had execrable taste. Back

3\. Sad to say, nobody ever noticed this curse.  Back


End file.
